Wednesday, March 5, 2008

TASTING; the city, the wine....the men?

I've always known an international man would suit me well.

First off, I dig accents. Any issue I'd have with European men would be in regards to the atrocious Euro shoes. I can handle my man saying "lovely" if he has an accent, but it he's wearing cheeky leather tennis shoes, that are shaped strangely like rectangle banana boats, we're gonna have a problem. Especially if they're white. Who wears white tennis shoes unless they're a thug rapper with a roadie who shines them, or...a tennis player? Andy Rodick is exempt from this rule.

Good thing I couldn't see Antonio's shoes. (Who the fuck is Antonio?)

Tuesday is my "Fill 'The Well' day" and strangely enough, this Tuesday my well was filled entirely through my stomach. A completely gastronomic well. Chelsea Market was the culprit (if you've been you understand). I fell in love with the scents, the richness that fills your nose as much as your belly, the spices, the handmade chocolates, the business men clutching paper bags with gourmet cheeses and warm brownies for an afternoon snack between conference calls. It's just completely, charming. The sort of place where someone could break into "musical" style song and dance and the onlookers would all know the words, and some synchronized kickline with women holding bouquets and rocking rosy lips and flapper dresses would happen.

I even fell in love with the slippery floors that caught the edge of my heel and had me flat on my ass in front of a gaggle of men wearing overalls, slurping clam chowder. "Hey boys, happy you're staring now...too bad I wasn't wearing a skirt huh?"

THEN, I fell in love with grilled cheese at The Green Table...I was so drunkenly in love with the grilled cheese (no, I wasn't actually drunk yet.) I took pictures of it on my camera phone and made it my background. It was otherworldly, trust me.

I digress, you're still wondering who the F Antonio is. Due to my enhanced hankering for food finds, I went out on a mission and naturally, found a bar- or three, along the way. Hey, when you start early you have to make sure you hit at all ofthe tapas hours, the streets are small, so the next glass of sugary sangria is practically "at your doorstep".

Spot #1Gottino White wine and pesto bruschetta, followed by a little chat with the owner Jodi (I'm ignoring the fact that that's my Ex's new girlfriends name. Who I abhor.), (P.S. New York Magazine named them Best Wine Bar, the day I hopped in so celebration was in the air- strange I thought it was because I had graced them with my loveliness. Silly me, I'm not famous yet.)

Spot #2Matador tapas were wonderful and it was strangely quiet, so I absolutely felt like "the creepy chick" at the bar, however I look a bit too youthful to pull of creepy, I still have a plump, shiny, elvish (sparkly cheeks) face. I'm sure the bartender was waiting for me to order a double shot of whiskey.

Spot #3 P*ONG, HEY HO ANTONIO. I was finding my merry was back home sashaying like Little Red Riding Hood, when I noticed big dark brown eyes peering at me from behind a candlelight glass window....it suddenly occurred to me, "Chelsea Talks Smack, you're still hungry. Better stop and eat before you collapse from starvation."

I played actress. I gave NataliePortman a run for her money, I looked so bewildered, acting as If I just "noticed", tripped even in my pointy boots over this little place. I skimmed over the menu, even though I'd seen it a million times and had already mentally noted the Chocolatini. And said shit, have a seat and enjoy the "scenery."

"What are you drinking?"

God, I'm such a lush. And what a terrible line, I should have asked him what his fucking sign was instead...though, I could already tell he was a Scorpio. And, I already knew- I wanted the chocolatini.

Holy Italiano. Yes my friends, he has an accent and I realize now, I'm about to spend an excruciating hour trying to decipher his words and play "21 Questions" that will most likely get lost in translation. In comparison to my other option, do I really want to sit at home and watch Oprah's Big Give while crying onto my peanut butter and jelly, crackers? No. Sure, I'll have another round.

"Ey-ah, I ordered the ah, tasting menu-ah, I'm-ah so full-ah......with 4 more courses of dessert-ah to go-ah. Will you join me??"

A man offering me not one, but four desserts in one sitting.....is this a magical Italian a mirage? A saint? A miracolo? Am I being set up, or is this a trippy version of Touched by an Angel if not, he is a man after my heart indeed.

After warm date cake, varieties of sorbets, chestnut truffles and pineapple tiramisu, I noticed about two hours had passed. Broken English and all. The love for food is universal. The love for our grandmas, the city, the Village, and oh, did I mention food again...we talked a lot about food like some people talk about babies, and puppy dogs, gushing passion... and I don't think he would have minded if he needed a gurney to get me out of the restaurant, he wanted me to be fed. Italian men are God's. The best part; we exchanged numbers and with a brief kiss to the cheek, he walked me to my street corner (again with my hooker similarities) and didn't send any creepy text messages asking what color my underwear were. Thank you lord. High five. Instead....I got this the next day, "I hope you have a lovely day. I look forward to seeing you again sometime..."

Hm, shall we meet again? Other than the Euro shoes, which he apparently left at home....I forgot that when you're sitting down, you can't gage a persons height, and though Italian men are lovely, 5'3 isn't.

48 comments:

MIND READER! I was going to email you and tell you about Chelsea Market this week! How amazing is it?? The Green Table is one of my favorite restaurants in the city, and don't even get me started on Fat Witch...

I typically have a strict rule about dating men shorter than I am, but you already got to know him a bit and seem a tad smitten so, hell, go for it. European men are more apt to wear lifts in their shoes anyway.

Hot damn! You GO! I am a sucker for [most] Italian men. I dated a guy named Tony (duh) who happened to be a very tall Northern Italian. Yummy. Wonder where he is now... Now I wanna go to Chelsea market very badly. I'm so hungry.

You don't have to MARRY the guy or anything, but I do think you ought to keep going out with him. That way, if he has any tall, Italian food-lovin' buddies, we can read all about your two-timing hijinks. (:

i love these "filling the well" posts (i'm filling my well looking at apartments tomorrow--i'm a real estate nerd.) and i can understand a height thing (though i myself am under 5'2")--it's hard to feel safe with a man you would need to physically protect.

Shame on you, Chelsea, you've just spoiled my diet! After reading that, I had to go raid the fridge and dethaw the tiramisu I was trying to save for a slimmer day!

Just kidding. I was going to eat it anyway.

In the past few years, I've become much more lenient about height. I used to have an informal rule that I absolutely would not go near a man under 5'8" because I like the comfort of the height differential. But this year I tried dating someone who was 5'7", and after a short time, I didn't even think about it anymore. It's amazing how good conversation (and kissing) can distract you from, er, small things.